


Sometimes, He Sadly

by Raphaela_Crowley



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Flaming Sword (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley's Name is Crawly | Crawley (Good Omens), Friendship, Gen, Loneliness, No Slash, One Shot, Post-Scene: St James's Park 1862 (Good Omens), Sad Aziraphale (Good Omens), Scene: Garden of Eden (Good Omens), Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Snow, St James's Park (Good Omens), Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:54:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28120470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raphaela_Crowley/pseuds/Raphaela_Crowley
Summary: Garden of Eden in 3901 B.C.: Crawley misses Aziraphale, now that humanity's moved on and the angel's no longer needed to guard the eastern gate.St James's Park in 1872: Aziraphale misses Crowley, who has vanished from his life (and the world at large, apparently) ever since that day, ten years prior, when he refused his request for holy water.They both sadly stand where they last saw one another.It's only natural, after all, to be missing the only other more or less consistent face in your life when you've got all the ages of the world ahead of and behind you.Isn't it?
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Sometimes, He Sadly

_Sometimes, He Sadly_

A _Good Omens_ fanfiction

_3901 B.C., The Eastern Gate of The Garden of Eden:_

The Garden of Eden's location has slowly but surely been forgotten by mankind at large over the last century. For a long time, the locals used to come right up to the wall, try to scale it or trick their way in. The angel of the eastern gate – the one whose name was Aziraphale – always had to be on guard back then. He was pretty good at dissuading people from their schemes, but he would have been a lot _more_ convincing with a flaming sword.

Too bad he'd given it away.

The memory of his wretched facial expression as he cried, "I gave it _away_!" still makes Crawley smile and feel warm and sweet inside, though he'd never admit it.

In fact, the demon almost felt bad – a passing, fleeting bad, mind you, but still _bad_ all the same – he had to keep tempting people to trouble the angel with their idiotic 'break into the garden at random hours' schemes.

But, well, it was his _job_. There was no help for it.

Besides, he had sort of an idea that if he _didn't_ , the humans would just think it up for themselves, and then Hell would come to realise how little Crawley was actually _needed_ on earth where their side was concerned. The demon _liked_ spending most of his time topside on sunny earth instead of in a damp basement. He couldn't risk letting the humans beat him to it.

Now, though, things have changed – people are giving in marriage, and being given in marriage; they are buying and selling. They have no time to think about God, or magic apples, or immeasurably beautiful pleasure gardens from which they are forever barred.

They never think of the angel standing on the wall with his white, gold-trimmed robes aflutter in the high wind.

When things first started to slow down, Crawley used to slither over into the area in the form of a snake.

He didn't let the angel know he was there, usually, but he'd just sort of coil up nearby, wherever he could get a clear view of the angel, watching him with his steady yellow eyes, taking inexplicable comfort from his presence, particularly if he'd had a bad day.

Then one day Crawley slid up the stone wall and looked about the length of it and couldn't find the angel anywhere.

He came back the next day – same as before, no angel.

He shifted back into his favourite shape and turned his head every which way. Hands cupped over his mouth, he almost called out the angel's name, only catching himself in the nick of time. Pretty big bleeding idiot he'd look like, calling out frantically for an angel on the wall of the Garden of Eden.

Gradually it had occurred to him that Aziraphale's task had been carried out – all set, fulfilled, over for good.

No one came here any longer save the serpentine demon himself. The garden was starting to get a little overgrown, truth be told, beautiful though it still objectively was.

Wake _up_ , Crawley, he told himself. _Why_ would he come back? Who is he supposed to be keeping out?

Reaching the most likely conclusion at last, Crawley was nearly overwhelmed with loneliness. The other demons weren't much so far as decent company went, and he'd _liked_ seeing the angel with his stern yet tranquil face watching out over the eastern side of the garden.

Who did he have now? What did he have to look forward to?

Nobody, nothing.

Even though it was foolishness, even though he risked being _seen_ – the garden wall was too open, and Crawley appeared shamelessly as himself in those days, with his obvious, unmistakable flaming red hair a beacon to any supernatural spies that might be observing him, and not as often as before a watchful black snake – he still visited the eastern wall after a bad day in Hell, or when his temptations went awry and the whole damnable universe just seemed set against him.

And he still does.

Because sometimes he just needs to _be there_ , despite everything.

Sometimes, he sadly stands where he last saw the angel.

* * *

_1872, ST James's Park, London:_

It is winter, and the park is covered in crisp, crunchy snow, and there aren't any ducks to feed or squirrels to observe.

Bundled against the cold in his warmest cream-coloured coat and tartan scarf and fur-lined mittens, Aziraphale stands in front of the frozen duck pond.

He stares out at the bleak scene spread before his bloodshot eyes. Sometimes the principality can find the beauty in it, other times he feels too downhearted to attempt to see beyond the lack of ducks or flowers or grass or, simply, _life_.

Everything's _asleep_.

Everything except for him. He never sleeps.

It's been ten years since he and Crowley were here together, since Crowley asked him for holy water and he vehemently refused his outrageous request.

He should accept by now that the demon is not coming back. He's angry with him – he doesn't _need_ him. They both agreed on that fact, didn't they?

It's rather too cold to be out here, but Aziraphale still comes, whenever he has a little free time, just in case. Maybe Crowley will show up, after all, perhaps he hasn't left London or gone into hibernation in some place Aziraphale will never find him; perhaps it's all just ill luck that they haven't bumped into one another since that day.

Yes. And perhaps the moon will turn into a giant block of cheese and a giant mouse will feast on it tomorrow. One is as likely as the other.

Mmm, _cheese_. Aziraphale's stomach grumbles. He waits a few moments longer anyway.

The snow is falling again, in hard, small flakes that feel so cold and bitter – like icy, biting gnats – on his exposed nose and red cheeks.

Aziraphale blinks back unshed tears. He vows to himself he won't come back here again tomorrow, even though he – pathetically – lacks any immediate plans to be elsewhere. It's a vow he fully expects to break, despite himself, and he's already trying to think of what restaurants are in close proximity that he might like to eat at tomorrow, afterwards.

Sometimes, he sadly stands where he last saw the demon.


End file.
